


Let's Play a Game

by happyfoxy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Chess, Gen, POV First Person, POV Jim Moriarty, Tie-in-media
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-11 00:57:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2047014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/happyfoxy/pseuds/happyfoxy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty is bored. So, best to bring down the British government. Because it seemed like the thing to do. Expect tone shifts chapter to chapter; fits with the characterization that's been given.</p><p>Pre-"Study in Pink" onwards told through Moriarty's perspective. Lots of game and tie-in-media references that make this a sort of strange meta-fiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'll Take Black

**Setup: People are Pieces**

Chess is a funny sort of game. True masters recognize that when you’re playing against equals, white’s goal is to win; black is to stalemate. You can truly see so many moves ahead, you can predict what shall transpire. All your opponent’s countermoves. Novices always want to play white. I let them. Because I’m _better_ than them. I win playing black.

I smirk as I set up the board. My opponent does not even know he’s playing yet. He won’t know for some years, I suspect. I mentally make note of the current players. The White King: the would-be king of England. The White Queen: the eldest, smartest Holmes. A White Knight, the younger Mr. Holmes. A pair of pawns: one for Scotland Yard and another for MI6. We’ll see if they can gain some allies or suffer quickly. My side is a little fuller: the Black Moriarty King and Queen, Moran’s Black Rook, and a full set of pawns.

Now to wait for the White King to be _presented_ his opening move.

This is going to be a long game.

**Initiate Play: Forcing a Move**

To predict moves, you must first know your opponent. While the White King is pure logic, the White Queen runs on intuition. Best to separate them early in the game. He’s always trying to prove how detached—an IceMan, oh, I like that!—he is to his overlords. So, he’ll send his siblings into danger when possible, while withholding the low probability of death… I can’t help laughing at the thought. Let’s make his numbers hurt him.

I open my mobile. I switch to the contacts. I close my eyes. I tap the screen. It rings. Once. Twice. No one ever lets it gets to three rings when I call. “Hello?” American. Woman. “M-Mo-Moriarty?” Appropriately terrified. Good.

“I need you to do a job.”

I hear an audible gulp at the end of the line. “W-w-hat sort of job?”

I begin rubbing my thumb and middle finger together absently. “The kind where someone ends up wishing I was never born.”

She shakes her head in my mind’s eye. Dyed blonde hair. One of those tattooed ‘family members.’ “I only really do package delivery.”

No one gets into my network without a trail of bodies. I open my eyes I look at the name listed. “You are working undercover for the CIA to break a crime family. Now, if you’d like to continue breathing, I suggest you do what I say.”

“Am I the one whose supposed to wish you were never born?” The feeble child is gone. Its all killer instinct. I do love the CIA; they find such wonderful uses for us psychopaths. “So, who do you want me to kill?”

“I didn’t say anything about killing!” No, no, no, no. Killing wouldn't be any fun at all. I need IceMan to surrender.

* * *

Fourteen hours.

They’ve been at this for fourteen damn hours.

Capturing the White Queen was the easy part.

Breaking her? Well, this has turned into a learning experience.

“If the smell of shit is bothering you, get the fuck out.” The White Queen’s bowel controls gave out hours ago. The smell has started to get to everyone except her. She’s probably too delirious from the broken bones, blood loss, and dehydration at this point to care.

CIA turns around. She starts to prepare another waterboarding session. I never liked getting my hands dirty. But, it’s interesting seeing the professional torturers at work.

“Cunt.” It’s quiet. Barely above a whisper.

CIA spins on her heel. In a swift motion, the Queen is lying on the floor, chair and all, CIA’s fist still in the air. There’s no scream. There’s no, “ow.” There’s no swearing.

CIA’s mouth drops. She’s standing over the very still body. She moves closer. “You okay, uh, Asshole?”

There’s no response. She reaches down. “There’s a pulse… Her eyes are spinning. We really need to get her to a hospital.”

* * *

I light up a cigarette. The White Knight enters the dilapidated building. Not exactly the fallout I was expecting, but I’ll take it. White Queen locked away in the ivory tower—okay, it’s an asylum—and her most loyal knight just cannot fathom life without her. Poetic. I love people that want to be their archetypes.

I think CIA needs to be promoted on the board. Bishop. She seems like a Black Bishop, to me. Let’s hope IceMan proves more of a challenge next round. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On White Queen: Oldest Holmes is a sister, because (1) Mofftiss have been gender switching a lot of the siblings; (2) the French translation of "the other one" (after running it by the BBC) ended up being older sister (even though there's lots of other translations that could of worked); (3) I just like the idea of Sherrinford "Sherry" Holmes; and (4) it doesn't matter as I just 'fridged the character anyway (I'm going to silicon hell. It's cool.).
> 
> On Black Bishop: Mary came across as terrified at the though of Moriarty returning in HLV. Magnussen had to have gotten info on her from a former employer. The only line of work that could be worse than "shooting your best friend" (and possible ex-gay lover, if in-universe tabloids are believed), would be working for the man who tried to murder John. So, the only way to rectify those two conflicting views is if Moriarty had dirt on Mary to get her to work for him directly. Mary is fairly self-preserving, so I doubt she'd consider the ramifications.
> 
> On Black Queen/King: Which is Janine and which is Jim? Not going to tell yet. Maybe Janine is the true Moriarty and everyone is doomed.


	2. Coordination: It Takes Two to Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Start of a psychopathic obsession...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snippets stolen from http://www.thescienceofdeduction.co.uk

I hate computers. The average person thinks of a computer as a magical box. But, they’re really stupid. The computers. And the people. Take the coordination problem: how do you coordinate a solution with someone if you can’t communicate with them? How do you know you’re even working on the same problem.

Computers are ordinary. I’m starting to think IceMan is ordinary. Rather than investigate my puzzles he’d rather get his brother clean. Or as clean as a drug fiend can get. It’s _so_ boring.

At least my pawns keep me mildly entertained. Take Hope for instance. Before I got into his taxicab, he was bored. Just waiting to die. Now, I have a roulette contract killing to read about with my morning coffee.

I punch in a magical sequence of characters. Ones and zeros leave my computer. And the Hope Trust fund grows larger. I do love a good murder. Speaking of which…

I flip open a tab to my guilty pleasure, “The Science of Deduction.” Most of it’s complete garbage. Its amazing the White Knight has kept his dirty habits out of the papers. I wonder how much IceMan pays Magnussen?

“Do not send post to my Montague Street address. Disagreement with landlord. No longer there. New address to follow.”

I read it again.

I read it a third time.

A new move. After all this time. This is a different opening. One I can exploit. My finger idly taps on the keyboard. Username. Username. I need something that will draw him in. I smile. “improbrableone” I whisper to myself. Of course, the idiot won’t get the joke. Would he find it funny if he did? Well, fuck him, I’m the sexist thing on the planet and if I think its funny its fucking _hilarious_.

I type, “mr holmes there is a spare room in my flat if you would like it,” deliberately ignoring the capitalization.

Within ten minutes, an email alert informs me dear SH has “Got somewhere, thanks.” Not an hour ago, he was close to being homeless.

I can feel the color rising in my cheeks. I drag my full hand across my face, before clenching my chin in a vice grip. I open my mobile, instinctually dialing my right hand.

The man on the other end picks up, but does not answer.

“Where is Holmes living?” I hiss.

There is a long pause. “The same country estate… he’s… been… in…?” Moran trails off confused. He learned not to question me. Only to answer.

Through barred teeth, I correct, “the _other_ Holmes.”

There’s a shuffling of paper. Taps on a computer. “… I’m sor—” I hang up. Computers fail again.

We’ll just make another opening. You don’t know me, Mr. Holmes, but I’m what sex gods worship. I type, “its yours if you want it.”

Ten minutes pass.

Twenty.

Thirty.

An hour.

I’m Sexy McSex, damnit. Who the hell doesn’t drop everything for me?

Fine, we’ll do this the old fashioned way. A little romance. Some candlelight. Maybe a movie. You can be my very own Virgin Bride, Sherlock Holmes.

I try, “if you wanted to meet for a drink that would be fun,” and still nothing.

I think either this man is a moron or I am.


	3. Pawns and Kings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got bored one night and noticed that the BBC's tie-in-media actually isn't stationary. Connie Prince's (http://www.connieprince.co.uk/) actually had a weird hint to the killer and method at least a month before airing (check out the Wayback Machine on 2010/7/29) and had the site semi-setup almost a year earlier.
> 
> That said, totally unrealistic for Jim to meet Raoul, etc. given how websites actually work.

IceMan does not appreciate chess. Pawns and Kings are much too similar to treat them separately all the time. He fortifies the White King, but does not consider the attacks coming from the Black King against pawns.

Take Miss Molly Hooper. She has the potential to be a valuable pawn. Fawning over the younger Mr. Holmes. Bored Mr. Holmes. Mr. Holmes who only tells her she is wearing too much lipstick. Miss Hooper who so desperately wants to be loved by anyone except her cats. She really needs to up her network security settings.

The breadcrumbs she leaves about... Like asking Connie Prince if the Virgin is right. Is she truly unlovable?

> Connie says: We had to snip a lot of Molly's question there as she was starting to go on a bit. But, yes, Molly. Yes, you can wear too much lipstick. I, myself, prefer a simple dab to bring out my natural rouge.

Days like this, I'm so happy to be the world's only consulting criminal. Because, if no one wants bitches like this dead, I should just kill myself now. 

* * *

 

"If you looked _any_ gayer, you'd need your own parade," Janine snarks from a sofa. The only woman-person-who could insult me without being a corpse.

Shrug. The earring could be a bit much. But, I am visiting Miss Connie Prince, 'saviour of women and gay men from their fashion faux pas.' It's a slow cab ride. The driver prattles on about something while I recheck my eyeshadow. A skilled makeup artist would tell the fake under eyes, but Prince is a hack.

The Prince place is respectable and suffocating with the smell of disinfectant. My low-cut jeans and v-neck look completely out of place in this world of fine art.

"You!" A heavy set woman points accusatory at me. "You best fix this hawking nonsense!"

This is a first. "Um, it's 'Hawkins,' m'am. 'Jim Hawkins' and I don't think my parents would like me going around changing my name." From the look on her face, that's not the answer she was looking for. "T-th-the temp agency sent me over? To help with your website problem..."

Should I add temp agency to the board? Or would that be counting myself twice?

"Right! Raoul!"

A gaunt, olive skinned man enters the room. He takes off a rubber glove before shaking my hand. It's calloused with a strong grip. His eyes are lingering a little too long on my features. Someone has potential. A bittersweet smile graces his lips.

He leads me down a corridor. We turn into an office. "Here you go." He turns it on for me. A sheet of paper is scribbled with the relevant passwords. "Hopefully you won-"

There's a crash. "I DON'T NEED YOU!" Connie Prince shouts.

I rub the back of my head. "Uh, she need help?"

Raoul looks about ready to cry. His voice betrays nothing. "No. _She's_ the problem."

I type away at the computer, suppressing a smile. There's more crashes. "This, uh, this happen a lot?"

He only nods.

"You try the police?"

He punches the wall.

I shake my head. "Some people... Some people think they're above the law. I'm so glad there's..." I bite my lip. He stares at me. "Nevermind."

"Tell me."

I shake my head.

" _Please_ ," he pleads. "That woman is torturing the man I love." I'm not sure what's funnier. The hyperbole or that Raoul seems to ignore that the brother loves his sister more than his would-be boyfriend.

I stretch my legs forward, arching my back. I dig into the front of my too tight jeans for my wallet. I pull out a battered business card. It's browned, torn on edges, and may have someone's blood on it. All of Moriarty's business cards are variations on this theme: why let anyone know who they're talking to? On this one is a single email address, Others may have a phone number or a post box. But never enough to get to me. "Here. Email that. Don't ask me how but they know how to get away with anything. Tell 'em your problem, you'll get a solution."

He takes the card out of my hand as if it were a sacred relic. "Thank you. _Thank_ you."

I pretend to work for a few more minutes. When I can no longer stand the smell of ammonium, I enter the magical "undo hacking" button. The important thing about being Jim from IT is that there's never any real work. The mysterious hacks are always from Moriarty...

I rather like being Jim from IT.


End file.
